


Lucy in the Black Sky With Diamonds

by valancyjane74



Series: Twenty-Five Years Before (viginti quinque annorum ante) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Backstory, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Familial Abuse, Malfoy Manor, POV Narcissa Black Malfoy, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Violence, Wedding Night, consummation, lucissa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26538568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valancyjane74/pseuds/valancyjane74
Summary: Lucissa ficlet detailing how Narcissa Black and Lucius Malfoy came to enter into an arranged Pureblood marriage.Lots of snarky banter and explicit sexual fantasy, as the haughty Slytherin pair begin their alliance as enemies-to-lovers.Definite addition of more chapters in the future.“Don’t go soft on me now, Cissa. You’ve been praised and celebrated for your physical beauty your whole life – pretty little Cissy, such a jewel, such a treasure to behold.” Lucius pauses, running one sinewy hand through his striking blond locks before planting it back on the glass.“I don’t care about that… what attracts me to you is your strong, feral spirit… that wellspring of cunning and brains that you take pains to obscure. And the soupçon of reluctant lust that I see peeping from your vicious little eyes whenever you sneak a peek in my direction inflames my depraved blood. I yearn to explore your carnal savagery, my Cissa.” His smile is slow and magnetic, making the flutterings stirring in Narcissa’s lower abdomen whirl and twist...'
Relationships: Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Series: Twenty-Five Years Before (viginti quinque annorum ante) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934278
Comments: 20
Kudos: 40





	1. Betrothal

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Nusquam aliud est vertere (Nowhere else to turn)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23994118) by [valancyjane74](https://archiveofourown.org/users/valancyjane74/pseuds/valancyjane74). 



> Many thanks to @dreamsofdramione for her BRILLIANT cover art; she has beautifully (and perfectly!) captured the essence of this story.
> 
> I cannot express how incredibly ecstatic I am with her wonderful creation, and how grateful I am for her her generosity and superb talents. 
> 
> Thank you K!!!  
> 💗😍💗

__

_Monday 27 September 1976: PM_

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick –

Narcissa Deneb Black maintains her outward composure as she fights the overwhelming urge to blast the wretchedly peremptory grandfather clock into a thousand tiny pieces with a flick of her long ebony wand. She smooths a trembling hand over the silver-handled caduceus in the right pocket of her flowing cream silk robes, taking care that her inward distress not reflect on her immaculately-glamoured porcelain face.

 _Imagine the hullabaloo it would cause, should I explode the Malfoys’ heirloom antique timekeeper smack bang in the middle of our marital contract negotiations_. Narcissa ponders the prospective scene with hidden malicious glee, allowing her blank eyes to travel back to where her ‘betrothed’ is standing.

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy appears to have deliberately positioned his tall, lean form to its best advantage in the severely decorated Gothic parlour. He is slightly off-centre in front of the lead-lined window panes, his back to the weak filtered sunlight; the mild rays turn his platinum blond hair into a back-lit silver nimbus, adding an extra breath-taking dimension to his cruel good looks.

Her eye is reluctantly drawn to the insufferable blond time and again, though she hates herself for her weakness in being attracted to his superficial beauty.

_I detest him. He must know that… judging by the sharp hint of a smirk on his face every time he catches me staring. Pompous prick. Thinking he’s Salazar’s gift to witches worldwide. I’ll fight him if he tries to touch me beyond – beyond what is necessary for procreation._

She snaps closed that unwelcome train of thought as quickly as she shutters her cerulean eyes. Her father’s voice drones back into her consciousness.

“…Well, it seems we have an agreement, Abraxas!”. Cygnus Black’s avaricious delight at the considerable hoard of Galleons the Malfoys have agreed to exchange for a Pureblood broodmare is all too evident. Her father is actually rubbing his soft, plump hands together in anticipation of his coffers filling with more gold. “All that remains is for the happy couple to sign the documents; let’s leave them to it, eh? Give them some alone time, Narcissa can let your boy know what she expects in the way of wedding rigmarole. A tasty port in your study would go down amply, eh, Abraxas?”.

 _Ugh_. Her father’s eagerness and greed is disgusting. Narcissa briefly looks up, noting that Lord Abraxas Malfoy’s lip is curled in a sneer that suggests he agrees with her assessment of Cygnus’s crass behaviour. Not that Malfoy Senior will call him out for it; this ‘arrangement’ came about at his suggestion, after all.

_Probably worried about his son’s growing reputation for doing more than dabbling in the Dark Arts – hence the need to buy Lucius a suitable bride. Swine, all of them. And yet… here I am, participating in this filthy charade like a good little daughter. Pah. If only… if only I could have been with Ransford…_

Her melancholy musings are interrupted by the parlour door snicking closed. Narcissa starts as she perceives that the two elder wizards have left the room, and that Lucius is standing much closer to her chair than she would like.

“Would you care for a refreshment, Narcissa?” he asks solicitously, not bothering to wait for her reply as he moves to pull the bottle of champagne out of its ice-lined bucket and expertly twists loose the cork with a small pop. Lucius doesn’t spill a drop of the bubbly fine wine as he pours it into two slim crystal goblets. He holds out one in front of her scowling face, his sensual lean fingers tapping the stem in a tiny prompt.

“No, I would not. And I have not granted you the use of my first name,” Narcissa hisses, bounding to her feet to stalk over to the windows. She cups her elbows in her hands as she stares out blindly into the rigorously maintained extensive grounds of Malfoy Manor. _This will be mine soon… well, inasmuch as anything in this homage to wealth and snobbery will be considered my own. A fancy, cold, prideful cage. Can’t wait._

“Come – we are to be married, Miss Black. What would you have me call you? Do you prefer a darling nickname… my little turtledove? My pumpkin? Goddess of my heart?” Lucius mocks in his cultured, precise tones.

“I am not _your_ anything – and if you dare to call me by any of those horrid pet monikers, I shall cut off your ballocks while you are sleeping. With a rusty dagger,” Narcissa clarifies, spinning to face him. The sly prat is now standing a mere hand’s breadth away; he sips languidly from one of the goblets he still holds, his pebble-grey eyes never leaving her face as he licks his lips in relish.

“Mmmm… delicious. Are you certain you do not wish a taste?”.

“Fuck off.” The tremor of surprise that flits across Lucius’s face is quickly chased by anger. Narcissa involuntarily retreats, her back colliding with the cool glass as dismay sets in at how easily he has trapped her against the windows. Her right hand instantly slips into her pocket, gripping her wand as she points it at the irate young wizard through her clothing.

Lucius puts down the champagne glasses on the windowsill – setting one on either side of her quivering form – before he places his big hands beside her head, palms flat against the panes. Narcissa wills her heartbeat to slow as the effect of his proximity and his delectable scent of pepper, citrus, and vetiver play havoc with her traitorous libido.

He dips his head close enough to kiss; Narcissa cannot decide whether she craves or fears his thin-lipped mouth touching her own.

“Nasty Narcissa – now, that seems more appropriate, hmmm?” Lucius jeers, drawing away to peer into her burning blue eyes. “Why do you insist on playing the victim, little witch? Does it soothe some childish need in your psyche, to believe yourself hopelessly coerced? Walk away this instant, if you despise me to the depths of your soul. I shan’t stop you.” He relaxes his tense stance infinitesimally, but keeps his mitts in place, pinning her head.

“I’m not a virgin,” Narcissa blurts, in a wild, last-ditch attempt to provoke a cancellation of the marriage pact. To her shock, Lucius tips back his platinum head in an unironic laugh.

“Good. Neither am I. Ah, Cissa – I shall call you Cissa, I have decided: the syllables remind me of the voice of the serpent that coils around your dark heart – do you honestly believe we did not have your past thoroughly investigated? I see from your startled expression that your naivety yet lingers. My father smelled a scandalous rat as soon as your dear papa began touting your wares like some common peddling goblin. He considers you damaged goods, I am afraid; I do not share his opinion.”

Moistening her lips with her tongue, Narcissa regrets the gesture as Lucius’s eyes darken to granite and his gaze grows hungry.

“Your paramour – Ransford, wasn’t it? – no doubt seduced you into his bed with promises of eternal love and sickly devotion, etcetera, etcetera,” Lucius intones. “You weren’t his first conquest, and nor will you be his last. His modus operandi is to pose as a struggling young music student, down at heel in ‘Gay Paree’… it’s rather pathetic how easily he catches silly young sorceresses in his snare. He doesn’t even play an instrument – did you manage to discover that, I wonder? He’s just a reasonably wealthy half-blood with delusions of adequacy and a penchant for exploiting fools like you.”

 _Shut up. Just shut up._ “SHUT UP!” Narcissa screams, baring her teeth as Lucius refuses to budge. “You know nothing of Ransford – you’re not fit to lick his boots, you depraved Death Eater!”

Lucius tightens his jaw; his nostrils flare as he snarls in a deadly whisper, “You will speak to me with respect, or I’ll tear up yonder contract immediately. And what will you do then, Cissa? You’re here today because I am your last chance to avoid disinheritance, poverty, and having to actually work for a living. For all your disdainful, high-bred ways – what skills have you? Finishing school in Paris has given you a lovely polish, and I’ve little doubt your souffles always rise… but if I reject you, you are out on the street tonight. It’s your choice, Cissa.”

Closing her eyes, Narcissa hears the clang of truth in the bastard’s cold prose. _I have been fooling myself. As unpalatable as the choice is – I am here of my own free will._ She shrinks into herself as the full implications of Lucius’s revelations batter at her remembrance of her sad little love affair, tarnishing it into something tawdry and piteous.

“Don’t go soft on me now, Cissa. You’ve been praised and celebrated for your physical beauty your whole life – pretty little Cissy, such a jewel, such a treasure to behold.” He pauses, running one sinewy hand through his striking blond locks before planting it back on the glass.

“I don’t care about that… what attracts me to you is your strong, feral spirit… that wellspring of cunning and brains that you take pains to obscure. And the soupçon of reluctant lust that I see peeping from your vicious little eyes whenever you sneak a peek in my direction inflames my _depraved_ blood. I yearn to explore your carnal savagery, my Cissa.” His smile is slow and magnetic, making the flutterings stirring in Narcissa’s lower abdomen whirl and twist.

“I am not _your_ Cissa; and I’ll never let you touch me without my permission,” she growls, narrowing her eyes in a fierce glower. Her sleek honey blonde tresses slide against the window as Lucius bends to whisper his response in her straining left ear.

“I’m counting on it, Cissa. I will wait for you to come to me; you will seek the pleasures of my bed before we’ve been married a month, I’ll wager. Your body betrays you – your pupils are wide, your nipples bead delectably against that cream silk, your breathing is shallow and rapid… and I can smell your arousal, dear fiancée. Like honey sprinkled with spice… I am dying to sample your essence with my tongue,” he croons.

“I’m frightened, that’s all,” Narcissa croaks, trying desperately to break the spell he has cast over her stupid body. “Let go of me.”

“I’m not touching you, my Cissa. I will retreat in a moment, but let me first tell you this: when you think of me tonight – when your sweet little hands creep between your legs and stroke your aching cunny, you’ll imagine my long fingers there instead, furiously rubbing your dewy petal, sinking inside your hot quim, all the way to the first knuckle… and you’ll add another finger, and another, until you imagine my hard, thick prick breaching your lovely cunt instead… you will envision my thumb strumming your clit, until your back bows and you cry my name as you come, and come, and come… all your slick pussy juices coating your hand… remember that I am waiting for you, little witch. And I promise – I will fuck you until we both collapse, and you will love every second of it.”

He takes her earlobe between his strong white teeth, bearing down with the gentlest of bites; the tiny touch makes Narcissa shake, in a faint facsimile of the orgasm he has just described in riveting detail. Lucius scrapes along her lobe until he reaches her pearl drop earring, before he leans down to pick up the discarded champagne goblets. He steps back from her enervated body with a wicked grin.

“Don’t forget to sign your name to the contract before you flee, my Cissa,” is his prosaic final remark.

Glowering, Narcissa strides to the small table on wobbly legs, stabbing the quill into the ink and nearly tearing the parchment as she hastily scratches her name on the designated line. Her mind is galloping with one snarky retort after another; but she is afraid her tremulous voice will expose her emotional turmoil.

She settles for curling her full lips at the corners and glaring ferociously as Lucius takes another indolent sip of the golden wine. Turning for the door, Narcissa takes care to close it softly; she is loath to let the smarmy knave know how badly he has upset her equilibrium.

Later that night, in her bed, she finds it impossible to resist making Lucius’s lascivious prophecy come to pass… and she climaxes harder than she ever has before.

 _I hate myself… though I hate him more,_ she assures her troubled consciousness.

_Mayhap that’s why this wrongness feels so right…_

_It is bound to burn out sooner rather than later. And I will survive this loveless marriage._

_I will._


	2. Nuptials

_Saturday 13 November 1976: PM_

The overheard phrases cling to Narcissa’s brain like tenacious burdocks as she stands immobile before the centuries-old looking glass in her gloomy new bedchamber.

_Pretty as a picture._

_What a charming couple you make._

_Pureblood royalty: such a perfect pair._

_You’re a very lucky girl, dear._

“I’m a very lucky girl,” Narcissa woodenly repeats. The anxious woman in the mirror does not seem impressed with her fortune. The polite, aloof mask she has worn all day is finally slipping, as twilight creeps through Malfoy Manor’s expansive estate.

Crossing to the window, Narcissa is relieved to see the wedding party appears to be winding down. The few guests that remain are being steadfastly herded from the huge, elaborate marquee as house elves fetch all manner of outerwear for the last partygoers.

The headache that has dogged her since she awoke shows no signs of dissipating; Narcissa struggles to unclip the long filmy bridal veil from her lace headpiece. She is clumsy in her haste, uncaring when the material rips. The fine veil cannot weigh more than a few ounces, but it feels like a too-heavy crown upon her aching head.

At last, it is freed: Narcissa recklessly tosses it to the floor. Her eyes alight on the small mahogany keepsake box she’d brought over from the Black residence this morning. Crossing to the antique teak dresser, she slowly unlatches the lid of the wooden box and gazes pensively at the sole item of jewellery displayed therein.

_“I had it made especially for you, Narcissa… though it could never match the beauty of your exquisite, luminous eyes.”_

The counterfeit words whisper through her memory as she picks up the blue pendant, absently running it across her palm as she remembers Ransford’s beguiling compliments and convincingly earnest promises.

‘It’s a sapphire, dear heart; I know it’s not much, but it’s all I could afford… I would be the happiest wizard in Paris, should you deign to wear it for me.” He’d even had the gall to look nervous… as though he hadn’t expertly played out the entire seduction scenario half a dozen times already.

 _The slimy, rotten, treacherous, lying, **cheap** prick!_ The gold-plated chain digs into her hand as she squeezes it into a furious fist. Narcissa recalls her shock when she’d momentarily managed to slip away from the forbidding gaze of her incensed father and paid a clandestine visit to Cheruwellery’s Fine Jewels in Diagon Alley, following her shamed return to Britain.

The jeweller had been brusque, but kindly enough as he’d dashed her hopes of funding her escape from her sire’s tyranny.

“It’s blue zircon, lass: and mass-produced.” His shrewd eyes had softened infinitesimally as she’d frozen stock-still in disbelief. “Muggle-made, and the necklace is merely plated.”

He’d pushed the measly thing back across the counter with a sigh. “Hope it didn’t cost you too much, miss.” His words had been imbued with a deeper meaning; the astute craftsman had clearly seen through her bumbling explanation of the pendant’s provenance and pitied her gullibility. 

_And to think I believed my darling Ransford had been swindled_ , Narcissa scorns her naivete. _I won’t be duped again; at least I have entered this anaemic facsimile of a marriage with my ‘exquisite’ eyes wide open._

The shammed zircon remains lodged in her folded palm. Narcissa is seized with an uncontrollable urge to rid herself of it. Her mind supplies her with an image of the deep pond at the centre of the Manor’s carefully cultivated and much-lauded rose gardens – a good a place as any to sink the last of her stupid, girlish hopes. She rushes from the room in an ungraceful flurry.

* * *

Lost to her dead dreams, Narcissa fails to hear the ponderous footsteps approaching until her right arm is cruelly gripped and yanked. The blue zircon necklace tumbles unheeded to the browned grass beneath the stone bench.

“You stupid little bitch – I’ve been looking for you for an age,” Cygnus Black hollers. “Is it truly too much to expect you might remain in attendance at your own wedding, slut?! Mooning out here like the dumb whore you are,” he sneers. He raises his plump, beringed right hand with the obvious intention of slapping it to her face; Narcissa tries not to cower as she cringes within her father’s vicious hold. _My arm will be bruised for days._

She cannot stop from closing her eyes as she awaits the familiar blow. It’s worse if she tenses – it’s better in the long run to stay limp and unresisting. The sole time she’d foolishly fought back, Cygnus had tangled his swollen digits in her blonde tresses and torn out a goodly hank from her stinging scalp.

 _I’m yet vain enough to not want to be a bald bride,_ Narcissa ironically reflects. She prays for numbness instead of pain.

The smack never eventuates. The ruthless grasp on her arm abruptly breaks, as the sounds of a brief but violent scuffle cause her to open her eyes. Narcissa blinks in the low crepuscular light, struggling to process the astonishing tableau in front of her.

Lucius Malfoy stands over her corpulent father, apparently having knocked Cygnus to the ground with a well-aimed blow to the shorter man’s jaw. The tall blonde wizard is bristling with arctic rage as her father whimpers and cowers, clutching his reddened face.

“If you ever lay so much as a single fat finger on my wife again – I’ll cut them off and feed them to you. Each and every one. It will merely mark the beginning of your torment – there are a multitude of other soft appendages on your grossly flabby frame for me to choose to amputate,” Lucius sneers.

He crouches, lowering his tone to a genteel murmur that is infinitely more fearsome than Cygnus’s customary harsh howls.

“Do you understand me, Black? Nod for yes, you pitiful maggot.”

Satisfied with the quavering older wizard’s hasty compliance, Lucius prods him in the gut, none-too-gently. “Get out of my sight. You will never step foot on Malfoy land again.”

Witnessing her abusive parent scuttling away in abject terror is not half as satisfying as it should be. Narcissa trembles as the adrenaline of the past few minutes begins to plummet, leaving her chilled and weak-limbed.

Having finished tracking Cygnus’s lurching flight, Lucius turns back to where his wife slumps on the garden bench. His eyes rake across the ground; Narcissa winces as he stoops to gather Ransford’s fallen gift.

Dangling it from one elegant forefinger, Lucius’s voice is acerbic as he enquires, “I assume this is your… trinket?”

Calling on her last reserves of strength, Narcissa snatches the cheap pendant and ferociously hurls it into the adjacent pond. It sinks with barely a ripple. _Much like my doomed Parisian dalliance_.

“Not anymore,” she rasps in reply. At a loss as to what to say to this man… wizard… _my_ _husband_ , Narcissa sways, attempting to steady her fragile balance by clutching the back of the granite bench. _Don’t faint now, you silly little goose_ , she scolds her traitorous nervous system.

“Th–thank you… Lucius,” she stammers, unable to meet his (doubtlessly) scornful dark silver eyes. It is the first time she has spoken his Christian name – she’d studiously avoided addressing him directly during the last six weeks of their accelerated ‘courtship’. The syllables feel weighted with peculiar import as they leave her mouth.

 _It’s just a name; and he **is** my bridegroom._ _Come what may._

The events of the stressful day flash past her mind’s eye in a series of disjointed vignettes. Lying sleepless the night before, wishing the coming day were already behind her. Rising early, being pampered, primped, and dressed like an insentient doll by Wredulia and Flemeth. Studiously ignoring the Black house elves’ pitying glances while she’d gazed silently at her pale reflection in the full-length oval mirror. Standing in front of the buzzing throng of Pureblood witches and wizards, smiling dutifully and responding with perfect diction when prompted to repeat her wedding vows. Sensing Lucius’s wintry heather eyes monitoring her every move as she’d battled not to betray her awareness of his nearness… or of his sheer masculine magnetism. 

He is watching her now; nay, he is seemingly absorbing her very soul – such is the intensity of his regard. Desperate to flee to the comparative sanctuary of her dreary quarters, Narcissa forces her tottery legs to propel her forward.

The damned overlong train of her cream tulle wedding gown conspires against her as her dainty high-heeled slipper catches on the dirtied hem and twists her right ankle.

“Oh!” Narcissa automatically splays her hands as the hard ground rushes to meet her clumsy self: but Lucius reacts swiftly. Slipping his hands around her waist to stop her headlong fall, he bends to scoop her effortlessly into his strong arms, pleating and gathering the bulky folds of the expensive gown with one hand.

Feeling dizzy and ashamed, Narcissa closes her eyes and ignores her primary instinct to reject her lordly groom’s assistance. His heart thuds against her cheek with a slightly heightened rhythm as he shifts minutely to adjust his hold. Drat the man for smelling so alluring; the combination of citrus and sharp pepper makes Narcissa want to take a deep lungful of his unique scent.

He’s deliciously warm, emanating heat like the fireplace she’d loved to sit too close to in the Black nursery as a child. She is seized with the impulse to rub her cheek against the fine black wool of his precisely tailored robes, but stops herself just as Lucius speaks.

“Are you injured, my Cissa?” he quietly asks, in a voice she would consider almost tender… from any other man but her spouse.

“Mostly my pride,” she admits. “My arm hurts, where Father grabbed me– never mind. It’s not serious. You can put me down, Lucius… I don’t wish to be a burden.” _Literal or figurative_ , she adds in her head.

“Perhaps I’m enjoying the unexpected opportunity to carry my beautiful bride to our bedroom and across the threshold; it’s not solely a Muggle tradition, you know,” Lucius remarks as he begins steadily walking them back toward the Manor. He chuckles softly as Narcissa stiffens in his arms.

“Rest easy, my Cissa: I’ve no intention of consummating our union when my bride still dreams of another,” he haughtily informs. “I told you I would wait for you to come to me, did I not? It shan’t be long, now.”

“You arrogant prat.” Narcissa doesn’t realize she’s spoken the words aloud until Lucius lets out the first candid laugh she’s ever heard from him.

“I cannot defend myself against that charge,” he shrugs. He falls silent as they traverse the back corridors of the imposing mansion. Narcissa is grateful for Lucius’s discretion in choosing their path; she dreads being the cynosure for more curious eyes. A thought strikes her.

“Lucius? Why didn’t you Apparate us straight to our rooms?”. She chances opening her eyes to look at him directly, confused by the muscle that jumps in his tensed jaw.

“I wished to enjoy the feeling of holding you in my arms as long as possible, of course,” he deadpans. He briefly glances at her startled face before he corrects, “I thought you might need the extra moments to recover your equilibrium, my Cissa. I’ve every confidence you will soon be hissing and scratching at me like a wild Kneazle.”

There is a faint smile on his face that makes his comely visage appear even more attractive. Confident that her husband’s attention is centred on their ascent of the staircase, Narcissa snatches the moment to closely peruse his patrician features.

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy is a study of angles and sharp edges: high brow, high cheekbones, strong Grecian nose and a firm, square jaw. _He’s as handsome as the Devil._ The old Muggle adage seems far too appropriate, given his Dark leanings. His uncommon platinum hair is cut short on the sides and back and swept back severely from his face.

 _I wonder what those vanilla locks would look like… rumpled by my hands in the throes of passion._ Narcissa tries not to wriggle as her loins quiver at the idea. She snaps shut her eyes again as Lucius suddenly looks down, resolving to lie quiescent for the remainder of the journey to their chambers.

 _I must have been drowsier than I believed_. Narcissa forces herself to return to full wakefulness as Lucius gently places her atop a soft bed. He wandlessly activates the lamp beside his huge old four poster bed. The light is surprisingly cosy, given the Spartan starkness of the room.

“Cissa – I brought you to my room to heal your injury; I have a special cream that will take away any residual soreness after I perform the ‘Episkey’ charm,” Lucius advises, helping her to sit upright against his banked snowy linen pillows. “May I help you to disrobe? I suspect all these buttons down the back of your gown require another’s hand.”

Grimacing, Narcissa nods and leans forward. The dress is impossible to unfasten alone, and the boned corset of the nude fitted underdress will also need assistance to unlace. The feeling of Lucius’s deft lean fingers tugging free the tiny pearlized buttons and occasionally inadvertently stroking the flesh of her upper back is unnervingly arousing. She is relieved when he begins to speak.

“No wonder you almost fainted – this corset is ridiculously over-tight. Who did this – was it your house elves? They should be punished for causing you pain,” he clips.

Shaking her head in negation, Narcissa defends Flemeth and Wredulia. “No, it’s not their fault. Father insisted that they tighten the stays. He said I was getting fat, and becoming a further embarrassment to the House of Black. He also forbade me from wearing white… because ‘trollops don’t have the right’.”

 _For Salazar’s sake – why am I telling him this? Am I so hopelessly starved for human interaction? Lucius could not give a fig for my familial problems._ Narcissa admonishes her loose lips to seal closed.

“Your father is an utter moron. I regret I didn’t tear out his malicious, lying tongue when I had the chance.” Lucius’s fury on her behalf twangs Narcissa’s lonely heart.

Ripping loose the last corset ribbon, Lucius pushes the sleeves of her undone wedding dress down her slender arms. The tight lace scrapes unpleasantly against her bruised right biceps, causing Narcissa to hiss in pain. Her husband stops immediately.

“I am sorry. May I heal your bruises, my Cissa?” he husks. She nods once more, staying still as Lucius retrieves his elm wood wand from his robes and performs the ‘Episkey’ spell. Her swollen upper arm tingles as the contusion is skilfully repaired, until merely a faint ache remains.

“I’ll apply the cream.” Lucius reaches into the chest of drawers beside the solid mahogany bed, unscrewing the lid of a small pot and carefully daubing the ointment onto her smooth skin. His touch is light and cautious, yet it sets Narcissa aflame. She hunches her back and defies her inclination to shy away.

“Am I hurting you?”.

“No… it feels… pleasant. What is it?” Narcissa petitions.

“Arnica, comfrey, and aloe vera. Plus a minor spell to promote cellular repair. It’s quite safe, I developed it myself,” Lucius explains.

“Do you… do you have need of it often?” Narcissa holds her breath, sensing she has gone too far. The tranquil – almost amiable – atmosphere between them is fractured.

“Sometimes. Let us simply say that tyrannical fathers are not only a Black family cornerstone,” Lucius finally reveals, his voice uninflected. “You needn’t fear either of our fathers again, my Cissa – I took my marriage vows seriously. I will not allow anyone to cause you harm, not while I have breath in my lungs and magic in my core. Do you understand?” he murmurs with unmistakable sincerity.

“I – I do.” Narcissa twists to face the man seated beside her, forgetting to worry about exposing the gaping front of her sweetheart bodice. “Do you intend to keep your other vows, too?”.

“Fidelity? Longevity? Yes, I do. I see that surprises you,” Lucius observes, re-capping the pot and placing it back in its drawer. “Provided you keep yours, my Cissa. I will not countenance being made a cuckold – so if you have grand plans to sneak your beloved Ransford back into your bed, I suggest you rethink them before I have cause to slice off his cock and feed it to the pigs.”

He delivers his menacing ultimatum as though he’s recounting a list of textbooks required from Flourish & Botts. _You would do well to remember his powers… and his wrath_ , Narcissa reminds herself.

“I will keep my promises. Thank you for taking care of me, Lucius,” she utters the words with some reluctance, hating her current state of vulnerability.

“You are welcome, my Cissa. Come, I’ll help you to your room,” he holds out his hand for her to take.

Narcissa remains motionless as she stares at her husband’s strong, ivory-hued hand, and defiantly ignores the voice of inner reason shrieking at her in alarm.

“I want to stay.”

* * *

“Tell me what you want, my Cissa.”

Her husband’s smoky voice as he hovers above her naked body further agitates Narcissa’s blazing libido. His eyes have darkened to a deep pewter since she’d finally persuaded him to consummate their union.

 _Persuaded him. Ha._ Narcissa wryly considers the irony of having to work to convince Lucius to have sex with her. He’d responded to her request to stay with impenetrable impassivity, only his scorching gunmetal eyes betraying the intensity of his reaction.

“I told you – I won’t be used as a substitute for another man,” he’d barked, as the tension had stretched between them like spun spider’s silk. “Go to your chambers before I change my mind and take you for my own.” He’d stepped back, his posture ramrod straight and his mouth grim.

“I won’t be thinking of anyone but you… Lucius,” Narcissa had dredged up her courage and held firm. _In for a Knut, in for a Galleon_. Besides, it was the ineluctable truth: she ached to feel his hands and mouth upon her febrile body… his hard cock between her thighs.

“I want – I want this. I want you,” she’d admitted, swallowing the last of her nerves to raise her head and return his intense scrutiny. “I don’t particularly like you – and I certainly don’t love you! – but my body craves your touch.” She’d faltered as his glower had deepened.

“If you no longer desire me–”

“You know I do. Look at what you do to me, my Cissa,” Lucius’s composure had cracked as he’d gestured angrily to the impressive bulge of his erection tenting out his trousers and robes. “I’ve no _desire_ for a sacrificial bride – I’ve enough pride for you to want me for me.”

Rather than answer him verbally, Narcissa had shuffled off the massive bed to stand before the handsome wizard. Fingers made bold with carnal need, she’d made short work of undoing his black robes, tuxedo shirt, and trousers, glorying in her unchecked right to map the contours of his tall, muscular frame as she’d undressed him.

Lucius must have been assured of the honesty of her intent about halfway through the process; he’d ripped off his jet silk cravat, dispersed with his dragon leather boots and socks, and impatiently shoved his trunks to the floor. The predatory gleam in his eye as he’d pressed his stark naked body against her semi-clothed form had excited her no end.

“Gentle, or hard, my Cissa?” he’d breathed as he’d traced his tongue tip along the outer shell of her right ear.

“Hard… my Lucius.” He’d growled then, a primitive sound of unfettered triumph and satisfaction. Yet despite her directive, he’d divested her of the rest of her weighty bridal attire with punctilious care, stripping her down to the cream lace suspender set and silk stockings, matching high-cut knickers, and the Belgian lace headpiece.

Fumbling at the intricate headband, her fingers had stilled as soon as Lucius had rasped, “Leave it. It looks stunning in your magnificent hair.” He’d knelt to ease off her high-heeled satin slippers as she’d sat back down on the bed, manoeuvring her to lie back and spread her eager legs as he’d caged her beneath him.

Which brings her back to this moment: “Tell me what you want, my Cissa.”

Her cerulean eyes gaze at him unblinkingly as she paraphrases his suggestive words on the day of their formal betrothal: “I want you to fuck me until we both collapse… I want your long fingers to frenziedly stroke my pink bud, then sink inside me to the first knuckle… I want to soak your hand with my pussy juices as I come crying your name, Lucius. And then I want to watch as you lick my honeyed essence off your fingers… slowly.”

Narcissa revels in the immediate effect her lewd instructions have on Lucius – his Adam’s apple bobs up and down like a fallen cork in a wine bottle, and his mouth parts as he pants shallow, rapid breaths.

“So be it.” Lucius hooks his right hand beneath her cream lace and satin panties, shredding them with a sole vicious yank and tossing the ruined scraps over his argent head. Shaking, Narcissa whimpers as he drags the tip of his index finger down her belly, swirling around her navel before sliding between her nether lips and unerringly locating her sensitive clitoris.

Arching her hips to encourage his strokes, Narcissa is frustrated when his fingertip stops its exciting progress.

“Did you fuck yourself that night, imagining my hands there instead, my Cissa?” he demands.

Reaching up to roughly rake her hands through his silky blond strands, Narcissa snarls, “Of course I did – did you take yourself in hand and pretend you were fucking my wet, willing pussy, my Lucius? Did you groan my name when you came, or did you scream it? I’ve dreamed of you every night since… I’ve fucked you a hundred different ways in my fantasies, Lucius. Is that what you want to hear?”.

His mouth crashes down to silence her taunts, his bold tongue seeking her own. He applies himself to rubbing her damp folds with expert glides and taps, occasionally teasing her wet channel with a sudden dipping foray before retreating back to her mons.

 _Oh, Merlin have mercy!_ Narcissa keens wantonly, jerking her hips in a frantic appeal for more. Her senses are already overloaded, as Lucius’s lips match the pattern of his hand’s strokes and incursions. She sobs in relief and delight when he finally achieves her long-held fantasy and sinks two of his long digits inside her throbbing core, fervidly pumping them in and out. Lucius breaks their torrid kiss to apply his hot mouth to her aroused breasts, suckling at each rosy nipple in turn as she clings to his broad shoulders.

“Don’t stop – please, don’t stop–” Narcissa begs, furiously whipping her head to-and-fro on the pillow.

“Come for me, Cissa – come on my hand, I want to feel your spectacular cunt squeeze me like a vice–” Lucius’s lyrical tones and filthy words tip her over the edge. Narcissa shrieks his name as she hurtles into a rapturous climax. Her shuttered eyelids light up with starbursts as Lucius continues to stimulate her tight tunnel, succumbing to the spasms and jolts of her exhilarated nervous system.

Lucius eases his movements as she begins to come back down to earth, finally withdrawing his lean fingers from her sopping core and unhurriedly bringing them to his mouth.

“Look at me, my Cissa. Your taste is pure ambrosia, my beautiful wife.” He doesn’t look away from her ecstasy-blown eyes as he licks clean each finger in turn, before moving his damp fingers to pluck at her pebbled nipples. Sitting back on his heels, Lucius takes his tumid cock in his other hand, vigorously fisting his imposing length and girth as Narcissa’s arousal immediately revives.

Stretching out a trembling hand, Narcissa skims her thumb across his slick glans, spreading his pre-cum over the mushroom head. He is impossibly hot, the inflamed flesh of his thick shaft rigid beneath the satiny skin. Lucius groans as her questing fingers drift down to cup his testes, exploring their heft and texture. His nostrils flare as he tips back his head and avidly pushes into her hand.

Narcissa sets her free hand upon his pale chest, deliberately scratching her French-manicured nails across his pebbled nipples; she stops just short of breaking the pallid skin. Lucius flicks his fiery eyes back to her flushed face.

“Lucius… fuck me. I need to feel you inside me – buried to the hilt,” Narcissa entreats, glorying in the heat of his rapt attention as she salaciously widens her legs in blatant invitation. Her breathing is jagged and speedy, and her mind completely consumed with carnal yearning.

Notching his bellend at her entrance, Lucius drives his hardness into her welcoming warmth in one hard push, dropping his hands beside her head as he begins a steady, relentless barrage of undulating thrusts. Narcissa hooks her ankles to the small of his back, tilting up her pelvis to facilitate the delirious drag of his groin against her clitoris. Lucius is gritting his teeth, grunting wordlessly as their heated loins slap together lewdly and loudly.

“Lucius… you feel so good – more, please, more – don’t hold back– ” Narcissa cannot stop herself from babbling disjointedly as she feels her renewed lust coiling and tightening with every rutting movement of her husband’s narrow hips. He adjusts his position slightly, hitting the front inner wall of her pussy and sparking a zinging rush of sensation that makes her gasp and writhe.

“Harder,” she whimpers, digging her silk-clad heels into his back to spur him into acceding to her plea. Lucius kicks up another gear, hammering his sinewy body in and out of her wet sex with feral intensity.

Her second orgasm is less of an explosion and more of a tsunami, flooding her senses with euphoria as she convulses around him. Lucius shakes above her, his ashen hair flopping in his face and his unusual eyes going blind with pleasure as he finds his own peak, releasing pulse after pulse of his hot seed into her channel. He moans her name like a prayer, fusing his mouth to her tremulous lips in a deep, ardent kiss.

“My Cissa…” he whispers against her mouth, before rolling them over and settling Narcissa flush along the length of his strapping young body. The smell of sex, sweat, and their mingled cologne and perfume permeate the large room. Their bodies remain joined, his continuing twitches triggering her fading blissful flutterings.

Bringing her left hand to his lips, the austere blond wizard presses a soft caress to the twinned bridal set of platinum and inset diamond rings that now adorn her slim finger. “Mine,” Lucius whispers, before placing her hand back on his shoulder.

Narcissa feels like purring as Lucius’s large alabaster fingers lightly run from her damp wheat blonde hair to the curve of her naked buttocks, and back up her spine. He repeats the motion as she instinctually snuggles closer, relishing the unfamiliar, unplanned intimacy.

 _He’s the last man I should feel safe with… but I haven’t been this content for years_ , she wistfully reflects. _It’s just good sex… OK, phenomenal sex. Afterglow is a powerful mood enhancer, don’t forget._

It takes no small effort of will, but Narcissa eventually manages to disengage and wiggle to the side. Feeling suddenly shy, she mumbles, “I’d better go… it’s been a long day…”.

She avoids Lucius’s gaze, sliding off the bed and snatching up her cumbrous wedding gown to hold in front of her body like a shield. _Stupid – he’s already seen every inch of your nude body, and you his. Just go._

 _If he asks me to stay, I’ll stay._ The thought jumps into her head and stubbornly refuses to decamp. Narcissa risks glancing at her newly-minted spouse; his hands are tucked indolently behind his head as he watches her intently.

“Well… goodnight,” she lamely mutters, internally castigating her daft sense of disappointment. _He still hasn’t spoken a word – he’s obviously lost interest in me for the night._ She turns to exit via the connecting door that links their suites, feeling oddly dejected despite her sated physicality.

“Narcissa.” Lucius’s urbane voice is low and mesmerizing. Silently, she swivels her head back in response.

“You are welcome in my bed whenever you wish. Sleep well: tomorrow we commence our honeymoon… and I intend to keep you up late at night for the duration of our bridal vacation,” he proclaims, with a decidedly wicked glitter in his graphite eyes.

“Sweet dreams, my Cissa.”

 _He knows how badly I want him – I’ve given him too much power over me already_ , Narcissa frets as she bolts for her unwelcoming bedroom. She flings her dress at the nearest armchair before quickly unclipping her cream suspender belt and sex-shredded silk stockings. She takes care with her lace headpiece, smoothing out its wrinkles as she sits it upon the teak dresser.

Climbing into the big cold bed that is a mirror image of her groom’s, two persistent thoughts roll through her brain as she waits for sleep to claim her.

_I never thought of Ransford once after I lobbed his foul necklace into the pond._

_And…_

_I wish… I wish Lucius had asked me to stay._

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Harry Potter world, which is trademarked by J. K. Rowling. I do not claim any ownership over those characters or the world of Harry Potter. This story is my own invention, and it is not purported or believed to be part of J.K. Rowling's story canon. This story is for entertainment only and is not part of the official storyline. I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story.


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